


Close Quarters

by Flamen



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Clothed Sex, Come Swallowing, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Mild Blood, Neck Kissing, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Shiro (Voltron), PWP, Restraints, Scratching, Season/Series 07, Shameless Smut, Tied together, Touch-Starved Shiro (Voltron), Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22105837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamen/pseuds/Flamen
Summary: Shiro wakes blindfolded, bleary, and tied to Keith.He can't recall most of what's happened leading up to their capture, but what he does know is this: he's having issues, newfound and pressing, from being bound so tightly to his best friend, and those issues are the kind unwise to dwell upon in their current close-quarter situation. He and Keith need to devise a way out of here, and fast.But Keith, oddly quiet above him, seems to be having issues all his own.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 165





	Close Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted canonverse sheith but horny and trapped in a closet to celebrate the new year, and lo, it was done. Further clarification on the dubious consent tag is available in the end notes if needed. 👍

Shiro wakes to something warm and heavy above him. He startles, but the weight is crushing — large, _breathing_ — and keeps him pinned to the floor. He coughs, pulls in vain, and wriggles back as far as he can, but a panic breaks through him as he tries to piece together what this is, and why he’s here, and _where_ , exactly, here is.

He can’t see shit. He can’t _think_ about shit. His head aches like its been bludgeoned by a Galra blaster; his spine’s contorted to an unnatural backward bend; his legs feel almost numb from the ropes wound around them ankle-to-thigh, too constricting, too tight.

Points of contact prick against him from too many sources, overwhelming and relentless, and Shiro rolls his shoulders in hopes of dislodging — _anything_ , really, but the blindfold against his eyes lies firm, and the ropes dig in deep, and the roughness around his limbs intensifies the more he struggles against it. Worse is how the weight above him responds to his jostling, and as pressure increases across Shiro’s back, he realizes this thing has a hold on him, around his torso, and he’s being pulled closer to it, and —

 _Fuck_! Shit, shit — okay _okay_ , so they’re tied together —

The figure moves in, and Shiro rockets back. The bridge of his nose knocks against something soft, hard, soft again. He smells —

Shiro stills, even as his heart pounds about his chest.

He smells shampoo.

He smells shampoo, and that’s notable because it dredges up visions of a pride of Lions floating lost in space. Of familiar people, and knowable situations, and of the two bottles of hair care products that have been circling their group as of late.

This is a — Paladin?

He wracks his brain for context but finds only sheared and distant memories. He threads them together with the practice of someone who’s already had to do so several times too many (and this time’s easier because there aren’t conflicting viewpoints to reconcile).

It makes sense the longer he thinks of it: there’d been a mission to infiltrated a motionless Galra cruiser. Allura and Lance had taken patrol from kilometers out, surveying from Blue and Red. Hunk and Pidge had split off after the initial breach to shut down the security bridge. He and Keith had gone room by room, hall by hall, in hopes of subduing the commander.

This Paladin —

 _Breathes_ , deeply, still lying against Shiro.

They’re too large to be Pidge, and the chances of Allura and Lance being in the vicinity near zero. One of the remaining options makes more sense than the other, and Shiro hedges his bets with all the courage and caution he can muster.

“Keith?”

The pull on his back intensifies. A muffled grunt sounds by his ear.

And at that, Shiro allows relief to wash over him.

Keith.

Keith's with him — his teammate, not a stranger. Shiro’s senses might be fried, and he might be feeling off-kilter, and fear might be rising within him even now, but a familiar presence means the situation isn’t hopeless.

So he takes a moment to _calm_ and surveys his body for further clues. Vertigo sways him even in the blackness — this, unsteady and tumultuous force that’s pulling at him like a riptide. It's made all the worse by his newfound startle reflex — to everything and everyone. To air. To his own heartbeat. To the horrible sensation of existing that he never noticed until he was forced to spend so long without it. It's been getting better for him over time, but he’s still —

Shiro shakes. The world covers in a thick haze.

Reality’s been more an acquaintance than a steady friend as of late, and for now, again, it’s slipped from his grasp. Perception in the moment is sourceless: pure feeling without logical cause. Shiro tries to separate the ache of his limbs from the digging pain of the rope, from the constricted breath within his lungs, but the sensations blend and blotch into an unidentifiable mess around him.

Keith is breathing against him. Or is he breathing against Keith? The noise needles skin-deep, pinprick, and seems to be from everywhere at once and yet from nowhere at all.

He doesn’t have his armor, is what he’s eventually able to parse. He’s stripped to his undersuit, and the skin-tight hug of its fabric is suffocating but warm. His heart echos powerfully within him, and from the lack of sharp edges jutting against him, from the further warmth nestled between their bodies, Keith must be without his armor too.

Pain doubles out of nowhere from a shift of the weight upon him, searing and stinging, and it’s a lot to process (he can barely take it in) but _Keith_ is the cause — Keith being here, Keith moving against him — so he braces against the motion — and it’s a micro one, really — to stop his shaking from taking over.

He forces himself to return to his body.

Think.

Just think, Shiro. Be calm.

What else can he make out?

His right arm’s gone and giving off a phantom ache where it was severed by Keith’s blade weeks prior. Stupidly, it also feels like it’s tied behind him and locked to his waist in the same manner as his left. Its real-but-not-really-there pain complicates and annoys.

All else checks out, and that’s good, fine, but as the minutes pass and the full picture of their captivity forms, it’s obvious to Shiro that this isn’t an easily undone situation. There’s a kind of solace in the fact that he’s not alone (not alone like _this,_ thank god), but guilt wracks him at once for the thought because he wants the best for Keith, and it'd be best if Keith were far, far away from here.

“I’m guessing we got captured," Shiro croaks.

The response is another grunt.

“I'm also guessing you can’t talk.”

Keith slams his shoulder under Shiro’s jaw. Ringing floods Shiro’s ears, and goosebumps spring up across his skin, drawn to attention by the touch. He turns inward on instinct to still the pain (because Keith’s hair, right there, is so calming and sweet, and everything else is not). And —

 _Fuck_.

He tries to keep his head on straight.

Communication is priority. He and Keith have to establish a way to talk if they’re to stand a chance at escaping their predicament (and _yes_ , they can get out of here, he repeats to himself. They can. They just have to find a way to work it out).

“Your wrists are tied behind my back," he says. "Can you touch me with your fingers?”

Silence is all the follows.

But Shiro is patient, and he waits.

Keith shifts at last. He pushes his weight to the _sides_ of Shiro's thighs rather than the center where he’d previously rested. He levies himself against Shiro’s abdomen in a swaying motion (and Shiro tries very hard to ignore the slight twitch in his pants at that because that’s not — _not good, not good, not_ for this situation), and Keith's shoulder juts at Shiro's neck _again_ , but harder this time, and Shiro sees nothing but stars as the sensation lingers and a blaring ear-echo knocks him from the world once more.

Shiro closes his eyes behind his blindfold. Fingers ghost up his shoulder blade, and he shivers.

…

Okay.

_Okay._

There’s a bit of a complicated biological reaction going on within him, but he won’t think about — _that_ — any more than necessary. It’s not Keith’s fault Shiro’s sensitive like this, nor is it his fault Shiro’s predisposed to inappropriate thoughts on the matter of close-quarter contact in the first place. So, please. Please. Let him keep calm.

But Keith’s pose must be difficult to hold because Shiro can feel him fighting to steady. Their shoulders bump up top, shoved together roughly and carelessly, but the points of contact on their legs are more calculated and spaced out. The targeted weight upon his thighs is hurting Shiro as much as it’s confusing him, but he pushes through and holds onto his sanity because losing it here won’t do either of them any good.

But _god_ , is it hard to not break down when all he wants to do is not feel — _this_ — when _this_ is all there is to feel.

“I’m going to ask you questions,” Shiro says. He hopes his voice is not as strained to Keith’s ears as it is to his own. “Touch me once for yes and twice for no.”

There’s a quick, singular touch on his back.

“Are you blindfolded?”

One… Two. No.

“You can see?”

Instantly, a tap. Yes.

Shiro tries to recall basic training, tries to assess this, this all, again and again, despite everything in him wanting to lay still and silent until all the competing sensations about him vanish and he’s left alone and at peace. Perhaps he could be left out-of-it, even unconscious, once more.

“Is there anyone else here?” he tries.

Two taps. No.

“Do you know how we got here?”

One. Yes.

Then Keith makes a sudden noise. He slips down Shiro, nearly falling all the way, and manages to pull from it only by pressing into Shiro’s stomach, which does an _incredibly_ unhelpful back-flip in response to being rubbed that threatens to combo with the rancid air to make Shiro lose his lunch. He stops himself, but only barely because there’s more adding to it; Keith’s squirming erratically, repeating the rocking sensation that messed with Shiro earlier, and Shiro’s ( _fuck_ ) starting to respond to it in a more physically noticeable fashion, and —

Shiro’s brain stalls.

Wait.

Wait. Keith’s not squirming or struggling; he’s _shaking_. Even now, half relaxed upon Shiro’s lap and decidedly not holding himself up.

His mind returns to its state of overdrive. “Keith?”

Keith makes his way back to his previous position, ignoring the slip and the question, but now that Shiro’s attention has been drawn, it’s impossible to ignore the obvious; it’s not Shiro who’s been shaking all this time — it’s been Keith. Keith is shaking against him. Has been. Still is. And if he’s been like this all the while…

Shiro tries to make this information fit the puzzle. He reevaluates everything up until now with this new and threatening knowledge.

Keith is shaking, but _why_ would Keith be shaking? Shiro knows the reason he himself is amess in here, obviously, but Keith —

“Hey, buddy. You okay?”

Shiro doesn’t want to push — he remains quiet, _calm_ despite how difficult it is — but a far-too-long moment passes before Keith moves to touch his back again.

He does so once. Twice.

And Shiro inhales sharply because — _Christ_ — that’s a _no._

“You’re hurt?”

Keith sits torturously still upon him and nothing more. He shudders, shakes, but doesn’t make a single sound, and Shiro grows more concerned by the second. He wishes more than anything he could see, could know what’s going on, could drag out some kind of response and solve the issue.

“Keith, are you hurt?” He tries to shift forward, but Keith draws back so their torsos can’t touch. “Keith.”

Keith makes an incomprehensible sound.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_. What does that mean? Shiro’s trying not to be alarmed, but this isn’t right, and he doesn’t know what to do. No pained noises have come from Keith insofar as he can tell. No sign of panic, no thrashing...

If anything, the opposite has held true; silence has been Keith’s default state, and he’s been lethargic in response and motion despite the highly tense situation. It doesn’t match what Shiro knows Keith to be like when placed under pressure and threatened behind enemy lines. Keith fights tooth-and-nail. He’s wild fire, instinctive and brazen. His will is iron-forged.

And right now, he’s not.

Shiro listens to the breathing of the man upon him until he’s convinced he can hear a sound rising underneath it: a small moan, a half-cry, perhaps something else. Is it pain? Could it be? Shiro picks out Keith’s breaths individually, careful and with measured practice, then matches them to his own.

He’s assured when the pace is steadier than he assumed. This is not a near-death sluggishness of a fatal battle wound, nor is it rapid hyperventilation. It’s standard, and if anything perhaps closer to the drowsiness before sleep. But it’s broken, occasionally, by shorted sounds behind Keith’s gag.

It almost sounds like Keith is sobbing.

Something is definitely _wrong_.

Shiro shifts forward again, and this time Keith does not pull back.

They touch in full — shoulder-to-shoulder, stomach-to-stomach, and crotch-to-crotch — and Keith quivers like a mouse as Shiro feels something between them where it shouldn’t be.

“You’re aroused,” Shiro realizes, and then he feels like his back’s going to break at how much Keith tries to pull away from him, bear-strength, ripping and tearing dizzily into him as he hides his forehead in Shiro’s chest.

It’s tight, it hurts, _it hurts_ —

“Keith, stop, _I can’t breathe_.”

Keith stops, thank god, but his head remains low and his arms drawn tense like bowstrings. Shiro’s still working through the implications of the matter, but the drastic reaction confirms it; it’s not Shiro mixing up his own body signals with Keith’s again. Keith _is_ hard. He’s hard, right now, this moment, on top of Shiro. He’s hard, and lethargic, and for some reason is _both_ of those things when he’s never been so by Shiro before and has no reason to be.

“A drug,” he works out — painfully, slowly — because he can’t conceive of a universe where Keith is like this for any other reason. “They gave you a drug.”

Keith shoves himself against Shiro, heedless of everything, upward and wild-like, and Shiro feels their stomachs rub, and their chests touch, and everything else too, and between them as they meet, trapped on Keith’s side —

He’s — _fuck_. The motion — the contact — the knowledge that Keith is horny above him — it pushes Shiro to a state of near delirium. His mind flashes a vivid image of Keith, red and flushed, quivering and sweating, before him, and he clings to it despite all the problems surrounding it, despite himself.

He clenches his teeth as his shoulder is tapped once.

 _Yes_.

Yes! Yes, yes, of _course_ yes.

Shiro exhales, jaw set rigid, and he’s intent on remaining composed. But when Keith lowers himself with further carelessness, grazing Shiro’s dick with his thigh, the thought of a quivering Keith breaches his mind again, and before Shiro can make heads or tails of anything, and before he can warn Keith of his predicament, and before he can think, and before he can do much of anything at all, he’s bucked up.

Keith makes a muffled sound, then whines and grinds down _immediately_. Shiro loses his grip on reality once more because that’s damning and powerful: no hesitation and no pretense of doubt to it. Keith grinds on Shiro right then, fucking _hard_ , right the _fuck_ out of nowhere, and Shiro has to fight every single instinct he has to not repeat the motion on his end.

He doesn’t have to. Keith repeats it himself.

Twice.

(And Shiro’s not going to lie: it feels _really_ fucking good.)

“ _Keith_ ,” Shiro chokes out. He races for words to defuse the situation, but none come. He doesn’t move, doesn’t talk, can only get out a half-sounded breath after a few failed attempts of nothing at all. He wishes he could pull his arm between them and set this right, but even then, he’s not sure he would if he could.

(Fantasies play with ease behind his eyes: of Keith leaned into him, gentle yet strong, as they kiss within the Black Lion; of Keith touching him on Shiro’s bed, lazily, drawn out, then hotter and more urgent as Shiro moves against bare skin to match tempo.)

Keith pushes down. He moans.

Hot and languid, unbearably slow. Shiro feels afire from the touch, and it’s far from ended.

Pleasure breaks through their rough bindings as Keith moves on, and Shiro shakes (really, this time) and nearly forgets to breathe. A low, throaty sound comes from within him, coaxed by Keith, and when Keith quickens at the noise, eagerly rolling and snapping his hips, Shiro _finally_ gives up on fighting what he wants. He pushes into the friction cautiously, then again with more certainty as Keith shifts to help him.

Because Keith can _see_ him, is the thing, and the dizziness around Shiro’s head and rising temperature around his face tell him he’s turned on in a way Keith should be able to pick up on. He’s been noticeably hard for a good five minutes, possibly more, and Keith might be out of it, but you don’t have to be all-there to tell when someone’s dick is shoved against your ass. It barely qualifies as a consolation that Keith seems undisturbed by the predicament.

It continues twice more, the motion, then thrice, then turns to something all the more hectic as they familiarize themselves with one another’s bodies. A steady, firm rhythm establishes that feels both fresh and old: both novel and nostalgic.

Shiro wants to say something — they should stop this, shouldn’t they? — but everything else _but_ this feels disconnected. Nothing else is comprehensible. The fire between them is something to focus on. It’s real, it’s palpable. It makes Shiro’s head feel like he’s been thrown full-force from a jet plane.

Shiro takes in shallow, whining breaths as Keith wraps his thighs around his waist. Sparks, fire — no, no, none of that’s the right way to describe it — rather, it’s a current across him. Shiro catches the rag-tag motions of the man above him and channels them throughout himself, down to his tied toes and fingertips, up to his deliriously light head. His body is new to this — new to feeling this, and, _god has it really been weeks since he’s been back?_ It all feels so fake, even now —

He’s desperate for more. He wants this, and more than this, and more than Keith is willing to give him. He wants Keith writhing against him without clothes, for hot lips down his neck, frenzied and pleading and meeting his own, for the taste of salt-tinged skin under his tongue, for Keith panting out his name, for something irrefutably _kind_ and _good_ and _wonderful_ in both conception and execution after all that’s happened —

He wants Keith closer, and that, at the least, is something obtainable. He presses his forehead into the side of Keith’s neck, against the warm thrum of his pulse. He blocks out the horrible air. He takes Keith in.

Keith speeds up, pulling at Shiro’s back in sequence with his thrusts. It hurts a little (so there’s some pain with the pleasure, so _what_ ) but it acts a further focal point for the mess of a situation, bringing his and Keith’s actions more into center field. It’s grounding.

Shiro’s not particularly proud of the sounds he’s letting loose, but he doesn’t care. He’s undone in a way he’s never been before during sex (and _fuck, fuck,_ that’s not his fault, it’s this post-inner quintessence sensitivity — _thing_ ) — but if Keith weren’t muffled above him, it sounds like he’d be much the same.

He growls out, low and harsh. “ _Keith_ …”

Keith responds beautifully to his name. It’s audible even through his gag. There’s no inhibition at all; any restraint between them is purely physical.

Shiro’s close, so close, and about to zone out amongst a sea of pleasure when he keys in on a new sensation down his back. It’s a jab, then several jabs, then several more _somethings_ pointed against him. They’re hard to pick out at first, but when they stab at him more, all small and spaced at odd angles where Keith’s hand are, they sort of remind him of…

Shiro breaks rhythm, to Keith’s clear frustration. He nuzzles into Shiro’s neck and grinds harder, bringing himself against him full-force. But Shiro’s mind is away, also forcibly, on their battle, on that satellite, on the clone, on himself. On Keith’s desperate eyes — _inhuman_ eyes — when he’d been pained enough during their scuffle to let loose Galra traits. He thinks of what he saw then: the slight off-coloring to Keith’s skin, purple-like; sharper teeth; extended insicors. They were all —

“ _Keith_ ," he calls, and Keith cries out in response just as eagerly as the last time. "I feel nails.” (Nails? _Claws_?) “You have — nails — you can use them to —”

Keith shifts position, and Shiro gasps as their dicks grind together. The scene that’s driving Shiro crazy plays out again, but now he finds it’s worse than before; because it’s torso against torso, legs wrapped around legs, and so much more between them, but this time Shiro’s nearly crying in response to it all. Keith is merciless in rutting against him, and Shiro pants and moves closer. The heat between them is nearly unbearable. It’s an inferno.

But thank god he and Keith are always on the same page because Keith is scratching seconds later at Shiro’s wrist in scattered, messy motions. He’s nicking the skin between swipes, and it stings, stings and shocks, but it’s no worse than the rope burn, no worse than being tied together in a dark room, no worse than everything else. Blood trickles hot down him, but it’s far from alarming. It’s barely worth a note with so much more going on.

The pain mixes horribly with the pleasure down his front. Shiro begins to tug, trying to break his arm free, and maybe that’s just making Keith’s aim worse and hurting Shiro more, and maybe it’s helping to wear the rope down, he doesn’t know, until —

At last —

He breaks free. The rope dangles and clings, wet from the blood. His arm feels rubbery and raw from disuse, from nerve compression, but he can still control it enough to move it, and so he does. He slides it to Keith’ ribs on instinct — to comfort and calm — and earns a full-body shiver in response.

Keith’s own hands pull downward, down Shiro’s back to where his arm was previously tied, and Shiro can’t help but buck up at the massage. He wraps his arm around Keith, pulling him in close and snug. Keith makes a yelp at the motion and tightens his thighs.

And it’s been too long since Shiro’s been like this, and it’s all he can take.

He comes, wet and sticky, while Keith sits atop him and their undersuits catch between them. He groans something unholy as he does so.

He tears off his blindfold still riding the high of his orgasm. His entire body’s shaking, and a buzz has filled his ears. He’s oversensitive, overdriven with lust and affection. His heartbeat pounds like a war-drum, body focused in on sex and little else, and all he can think about is how he wants this, wants this again and again, wants to feel loved by Keith, wants Keith to feel good just the same.

But Keith’s eyes stand out above him now that he’s finally able to see them — and they’re near cat-like in their gleam and Galra-like in shape. His pupils are blown wide in arousal, and Shiro feels both entranced and mystified by the sight. It’s new, alien, strange. Beautiful.

Keith himself is sweating, shaking and sobbing, and looks both overheated and thoroughly _fucked_. Shiro knows even as he tears his gaze away to the floor that it’s not an image that will be leaving his mind anytime soon.

He expects Keith to resume prior activities and finish the job — is waiting for it, if he’s being honest — but Keith, despite his keening, has frozen over. He’s still hard, painfully so if Shiro’s past experiences are anything to go by, but he’s not doing much to confront the fact.

Shiro squeezes his eyes shut. His focus, as he dares re-open them, catches upon Keith’s scar. It’s as angry as it always is in Shiro’s memories, just as red, just as risen as when he inflicted it. Overwhelming guilt crushes Shiro as he traces it with his gaze, unable to say a thing or even be brave enough to meet Keith in the eyes. He wonders how it is they keep making horrible mistakes around one another.

He wonders, blearily and as his wrist aches, if they’ll ever stop accidentally bringing one another pain.

He tugs at the cloth around Keith’s mouth and pulls it deftly from his teeth. Keith’s breathing is uneven, and strained, and his half-hearted squirming makes it harder to undo than it should be, but eventually the gag is cast aside to the floor.

Keith gasps. Elongated canines peek out of his mouth as he heaves and pants and nearly whines in his frenzy. A feral look crosses him that matches his bestial sclera and pointed nails. The sounds he makes are decidedly inhuman.

And there’s no doubt about it — they’ve given Keith something to throw him off, something unique, because even during Keith’s most intense moments, Shiro’s never seen him anywhere close to this.

Shiro places his hand against Keith’s cheek, against the scar, and Keith leans into the touch eagerly, moaning full-fledged and letting out noises that threaten to make Shiro hard again.

“ _Shiro_.” Keith’s breath is even heavier now that he’s able to speak. His voice is rough and raw, like it’s been sanded against gravel. His eyes close with lids that seem weighted by the dense and foul air. “ _Fuck._ ”

He presses his head into the crook of Shiro’s neck as he coughs. The heat coming off him is noticeable even there.

Shiro rubs him just behind the hips.

“Fuck…”

The pull on Shiro’s back tightens, and Keith shakes against him, hugging him, sobbing.

Concentration’s proving difficult again because Shiro’s too sensitive to brush off any of this touching, but he _tries_ to keep it together. _Tries_ to make this okay.

Because this isn’t. No, this is all wrong, and that knowledge is a twisted knot of weeds within Shiro that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to untangle. Keith never goes defenses-down on purpose. Not during a mission. Not around others. Not enough to cry into Shiro’s shoulder, undone by emotions.

But memories of intimacy contradict him — of himself, dazed and vulnerable in Keith’s lap; of Keith knelt at Shiro’s bedside, grasping his hand, letting his long, black hair fall against Shiro’s bed as they both struggled to stave off nightmares; of Keith’s voice, quiet and gentle, asking — begging — him to be okay. A thought rises within him as if to mock Shiro, one that says he’s wrong, and that Keith goes defenses-down around him, specifically, all the time.

An echo of their fight plays in the quiet room. He hates how raw it is. He hates how he can still hear the plea Keith gave to this godforsaken body that tried to _kill him_ , that desperate and perilous gambit that makes him sick and hopeful all at once — that _please_ , that _you’re my brother_ , that _I love you_.

And the creeping voice within him offers: _He might do this without drugs if you asked him._

And then: _He might do it gladly._

Feeling suddenly bold, but mostly stressed and terrified and stupid, Shiro presses his lips to Keith’s neck.

Keith’s breathing halts entirely. He holds still, so still that Shiro worries he’s made a mistake, but then he relaxes, in steps and with a gradually unfurling warmth, as Shiro doesn’t let up.

Shiro’s closes his eyes and stays as he is. When his next shiver hits, it isn’t from the too-close touching, and it’s not from fear, and it’s not from anything unpleasant at all. He’s wired up to ten and a half by the man he’s been having newfound romantic feelings for, and that man has been grinding on his lap for god knows how long now. It’s just a lot, a lot all at once, and all at the worst possible time.

Shiro tries to think cold thoughts (he _just_ came, holy shit, and he’s still sensitive, and _how_ is his sensory-fried body not content with this?) and trails his hand down Keith’s back in soothing circles. Keith’s nose presses into Shiro’s neck, and his arms squeeze around Shiro’s torso, and he sniffs. Shiro mirrors his pose by turning so his cheek rests upon Keith’s shoulder. He’s not sure if Keith wants him to jerk him off, or to ignore him, or something else entirely, and the thought of asking seems an insurmountable task.

So they hold, just like that.

“I’m going to untie us,” Shiro murmurs. (Because despite what’s happened, they’re still in danger.)

Keith nods into Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro give him a reassuring squeeze and begins on his own left leg. It’s tricky in the dark with only a hand and a half-disconnected body to work with, but he keeps at it, and eventually it’s loosened enough to break free.

The right is trickier because he has to move his arm between them to reach it. He knocks their abdomens accidentally, and Keith breathes in, sharp and rigid, while holding stiller than Shiro would ever be able to. They’re both affected by the touch, obviously, and Shiro almost wants to ask again if Keith wants assistance, but Keith seems intent on staying as still as possible, looking so incredibly removed from it all that Shiro can’t bring himself to push it.

And it occurs to Shiro, as he tinkers carelessly with the rope and watches Keith’s far-off gaze, that he doesn’t know how long Keith’s been under the influence of this drug. Keith woke before him, he assumes, which means the only one who’d have an idea of the time frame is Keith himself.

But it seems wrong to ask about that now — too personal, too embarrassing — and with no direct benefit to the matter, Shiro instead says, only once it’s true, “We can stand now.”

Keith is hazed-over but comes to at Shiro’s voice. He blinks, then rasps out a, “ _Right_.”

Together, they stand. Keith leads the effort, pulling Shiro up by the rope around his back, aphrodisiac apparently not doing a thing to hamper his half-Galran strength. If anything, it feels like it’s been intensified. Shiro lets himself be pulled by the brutish motions but follows suit in lending strength as Keith begins to lose his footing and crashes forward into Shiro’s chest.

Shiro steadies Keith at the waist.

And they lean into one another for support. Keith’s grip falls from Shiro’s back to above his hips naturally as they do so — he is shorter, after all, and probably not interested in keeping his arms raised when there’s no reason to — and he rests his head against Shiro’s shoulder. It looks like he wants to say something, and he opens his mouth to do so, but Shiro cuts him off.

“If you can get behind me, I’ll be able to free your wrists.”

Because in just a few minutes, he knows the situation will be much more agreeable for conversation. It’s best to have this talk — _if_ they have this talk, and holy shit they’re going to have to, and that’s a terrifying thought — then, and not _now_ when they’re still open to attack.

Keith turns the words over in his mind. He seems confused. Scrutinizing them. Finally, he squints off at nothing and nods. “I can do that.”

He keeps friction trapped between them as he jerks his wrists to Shiro’s left and his body to Shiro’s right. It’s tight, and he isn’t graceful, so the response is both predictable and expected; Keith’s dick rubs against Shiro during the tussle, and his breath hitches, and Shiro’s heart races as he watches Keith zone out again.

Shiro tries not to think about how how his best friend is hard behind him, dick pressing into his thigh and very clearly using all his self control to not leap on Shiro right there. How Shiro’s almost hard again from just the thought.

Because he’s not _dense_ ; this isn’t a one-sided fantasy. Consequences be damned, Keith wants to get off, and there has to be at least some form of attraction in the matter because even now Keith isn’t expressing any form of revulsion at what they’ve done, just pressing his nose against Shiro’s back and breathing in his scent like there’s nothing else going on in the world.

Shiro starts on Keith’s wrists. He curses at the difficulty. The bonds there are tighter than the rest — mostly because the rope itself is slimmer and able to be pulled in more elaborate angles. He yanks at the exposed threads over and over until some of it’s frayed enough to be pushed under the main knot.

“Shiro… are you.” Keith’s voice is weak behind Shiro as he works. There’s a slur to it Shiro’s never heard. He sounds so vulnerable it makes Shiro’s heart ache. But beneath his tone rises a steely resolve, and with that comes familiarity. “Are you okay?”

Shiro very nearly laughs. He shakes his head in disbelief.

“I’m fine, Keith. Are _you_?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I am one hundred percent certain you’ve been better.”

A half-cough sounds from Keith again. He pushes his forehead into Shiro’s back and exhales. “Hm. Maybe.”

Then his hands come free through Shiro’s meddling, and Keith brings his arms outward, gaze and sense of balance suspended in the air. He sways.

Shiro slides an arm across Keith’s back, gripping his side to steady him, and Keith does not protest, instead leaning into it. Together, they lowered to the ground, using the wall as support.

Blood rushes to their legs. The rough ache of their cores and limbs from being confined for too long begins to dissipate with the outstretched posture.

It’s nice to be free, Shiro thinks. To be side-by-side, to be without intense contact (no more of that, thank god). There’s a ringing in his ears that’s only now starting to go away, and obviously they have to stand again soon to examine everything, and obviously they’re not done, obviously they’re still in danger, but…

Keith’s eyes are closed, head lolled against Shiro’s shoulder. He rubs his cheek into it mindlessly, arms clenched and crossed in front of him.

 _God_ , he’s still drugged. Shiro’s heart quickens.

He takes Keith by the chin and gently forces up his gaze. Their eyes meet, and an emotion flashes through Shiro, electric and soft, as he sees that Keith’s pupils are still blown wide. He seems at a loss of where to focus.

“How long does it take this to wear off?”

“Dunno.” Keith’s eyes contract as Shiro lets go, then close as he shakes his head and hisses. “I don’t think — this isn’t normal for — anyone. _Fuck_ , Shiro. I feel like I’m on _fire_.” He scratches Shiro’s shoulder and grits his teeth, then pulls back and lays his head in his hands. He’s aroused. He’s shaking. He’s red and sweating and undone and looks very close to snapping.

Damn it. What’s the answer here? Shiro’s half-hard again ( _fuck_ this oversensitivity), and Keith’s looking delirious with desire, like he’s more than eager to do this. And he’s more than eager — they both know he is. But Keith is drugged to hell and back and they haven’t actually — talked. Properly. About any of this.

It’s ten full seconds before Keith caves. He curses, then grasps at his crotch, and for the first time Shiro hears from him an unmarred whine. “I — I can’t anymore. I have to…” He pulls at the zipper of his undersuit, revealing the skin of his chest, then stomach, then hips to the air, and Shiro feels another shock weave over him.

His skin decides that right then is a good time to get goosebumps. He gapes. Scoots over and settles so close to Keith that their knees touch. He moves in, and it’s bold, and he shouldn’t, but it’ll all he’s thinking of, all his body will let him remember.

“I can help, if you want,” he says.

Keith is already clenching at his dick from through his pants, but he pauses at that. He looks genuinely startled, and Shiro’s heart skips a beat at the thought that Keith might not know how deeply he already has Shiro caught in this. How easily Shiro would act to help him any way he can.

“I don’t…” Keith closes his eyes, and for once Shiro can see the extent of his confliction — just how much he’s struggling, just how stressed he is to be here. “I can’t ask you to —”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Shiro says, because _we basically fucked already_ is too blunt even for him. They’re past the point of modesty here, and way past the point of pretending to not notice the other’s attraction (and, oh, they have been doing that for weeks now). His body feels revitalized by adrenaline and purpose, and while his skin still feels jabbed by the air from all directions, his arm no longer feels weak and beaten; rather, it feels fit to take everything on.

Shiro watches.

He waits.

He waits, and watches, and Keith stares back a for moment more, then two, then three, and when he realizes Shiro isn’t going to move any further on his own, meets him in the eye with a strained smile. “God, yeah. Shiro. Help.”

Shiro slides his hand under Keith’s suit, and Keith gasps. He feels Keith’s length up and down, rubs carefully yet firmly, and watches as Keith throws his face back in ecstasy. He looks amess from pleasure, and Shiro wants to etch that pleasure into his memory. He grasps and strokes. Pre-come covers his fingers easily, readily.

Warmth and heat is nice, Shiro decides, but it’s much better to have this space between them. To be able to assess how Keith’s doing, see his reactions. It’d be even better if the room didn’t smell like rotting space junk, but hey, nothing’s perfect.

Shiro quickens his pace, and Keith begins to make whimpering noises.

“Do you think there’s a reason they shot you up with drugs?” Shiro wonders, then, because even when he tries to plan things ahead of time, his sense of timing for important conversations is absolutely shit.

(Adam had pointed that out to him a number of times, and maybe there was something to it; he _had_ once brought up the then-impending Kerberos mission ten minutes into a round of playful sex and sparked a fight.)

Keith seems unperturbed. “Galra thing,” he gruffs out, “I’m pretty sure. It’s — meant to humiliate. I guess word that I’m part Galra got out during the time we were gone, so they — held me down and made me swallow —” He closes his eyes again and lets out a long moan as Shiro works on a particularly tight stroke.

“Yeah?” Shiro leans in. He rubs Keith’s cock around the tip. Gently. Firmly. Fluid runs against his hand.

Keith’s mouth is closed, but his teeth gnash as he whines and leans back. He’s tensing and squirming as if he’s about to come, and Shiro keeps on.

“I-I.” Keith squeezes his eyes closed, near scarlet

Shiro swipes over the head. “Keith.”

Keith’s chest rises and lowers. “I.” He grasps into Shiro’s shoulder, suddenly. “I can’t —”

And Shiro only realizes what he means when he continues to work but the tension beneath him refuses to dull or waver.

“I thought I was going to during — earlier, too, but I didn’t. And before you woke, when I —”

Before Shiro woke? _Fuck_. He did _not_ need that thought right now. His dick wets involuntarily at the thought, and he catches a strained sound in his throat before it can let loose.

Shiro leans in closer. “Is it a physical inability? Or do you need a different type of stimulation?”

“I have _no idea_. I’ve only ever —” Keith snarls, and it’s a terrifying, animalistic thing. “Do you think I know what this _is_?!”

Shiro slows down as he works through their situation, and Keith huffs but doesn’t seem to have it in him to protest. He looks resigned to this — upset but accepting. Like he wants to pass out and sleep rather than deal with confusing signals from his body and Shiro. And Shiro can relate, truly, but he keeps on because there must be _something_ he can do, and an idea slowly comes to mind.

“What if I try another sensation?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“I can use my mouth.”

“F-fuck!” Keith turns a bright red. His voice breaks and lilts up.

“Is that a yes?”

Keith nods, rapidly.

“Okay,” Shiro says, and pulls his hand from Keith’s dick to the floor so he can use it to balance himself. He leans down until his head is level to Keith’s crotch, feeling Keith squirm under him. “I’m going to, uh, do that. Now.”

“You don’t have to announce it.”

And when Shiro looks up, Keith has his eyes away, mouth in a frown, and Shiro can’t decide how to read the expression, so he opts to change it. He glides his hand atop Keith’s hip, on a warm, smooth section of unscarred skin there (a sensation Shiro himself has not known for a while), and begins to massage out toward the stomach. He does so carefully and rhythmically. Keith lets out startled breath and brings his eyes back to Shiro.

And Shiro tries his kindest, most endearing look. “Hey, relax,” he says, moving his hand gently to Keith’s hip again. “It’s just me.”

Keith’s expression does change upon the gesture. It turns softer, more caring. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “it’s just you.” Then he reaches a hand to Shiro’s forehead and swipes — messily, fondly. He rubs into where the hair was once buzzed but has since grown to a decent length. (One-handed self-haircuts aren’t quite in Shiro’s range of expertise, and asking for help hasn’t been priority.)

Shiro leans into the pressure, solidifies it, enjoys it to its fullest, and shifts attention to the cock before him. It’s as expected — erect, obviously; wet, and redder than it should be. A single lick near the base is his test run, just above the balls, and Keith jerks back, spare hand grasping into the floor, other still light on Shiro’s head, eyes slammed shut yet again.

Shiro pulls back, and Keith follows him forward with a gasp.

“Is this okay?” Shiro asks. What this is, Shiro doesn’t completely know. The blowjob, yes, but more than that — _all this_ , he wants to ask. All this unfortunate buildup, all these unfortunate decisions, all the things they’ve been feeling but haven’t spoken about. This isn’t okay, it’s _not_. This is messed up — they should be safe in the Lions —

“Keith, is this okay?”

“Yes!” Keith cries. “Yes, _yesyesyes_ — holy _shit_ , Shiro, please, just keep —”

That’s all it takes. Shiro goes for it. He hasn’t sucked someone’s dick in a long time, and he knows he’s not doing the best job, but Keith doesn’t seem to be in the headspace to complain about skill level. There’s no need for any of the slow workup Shiro’s accustomed to giving and so he doesn’t give it; he uses his tongue messily, tries to curb his teeth, tries to remember how best to apply pressure, and it may or may not be good, but he’s pretty sure any form of sensation would keep Keith on cloud nine given the circumstances.

Keith is back to being loud, and Shiro had always imagined him as quieter during sex — and, shit, they really should have talked about this before today because it’s only now dawning on Shiro that he’s thought about sex with Keith more than once — so it’s an adjustment, but it’s not particularly bad. He enjoys hearing sounds, knowing Keith is there —

So it’s also no surprise that it’s quick, or there’s no warning to it. Keith’s been at the edge of orgasming for a long time, and when he comes it’s fast and hard, with tense shoulders and grit teeth. He comes in Shiro’s mouth, and Shiro nearly chokes through it but swallows as he does, with Keith’s hand tangled in his hair and his own eyes welled up with tears in response. He gives Keith one, two, long strokes after the climax, and withdraws at last, tasting the fluid in his mouth with a lick across his teeth.

Keith looks thoroughly exhausted, but his posture is overlain with a newfound relief. He looks, yet again, like a man more interested in sleeping than doing anything else, and Shiro wants nothing more than to cuddle against Keith and give him reassuring words, but they still have to get out of here, they have to —

But he’s awire, and strained, and stressed out, and his body’s telling him he’s not done. And he’s _not_ done.

Shiro considers fighting his own need, he does, but his undersuit is almost ruined again, and not just from his last round, and he’s been aroused for far longer than he’s ever cared to be, and he simply wants to get off to Keith. The image of Keith post-orgasm is going to be seared into his memory for ages, just alongside the tousled look of his hair from earlier. It’ll be enough to carry him for years longer in fantasy, and it’s certainly enough to carry him now.

Shiro draws back. “Sorry, I’m just going to…” He turns around and unzips his suit.

Keith makes a _very_ weird sound at that, something Shiro has absolutely no idea how to classify. He grasps Shiro’s wrist, pulling it from him. “Let me help,” he says, firmly, then both his hands graze over Shiro’s chest, over his abdomen, over his hips, and Shiro shudders.

If accidental touch is enough to makes Shiro lose it in ten minutes, purposeful touch can do it in half the time. Keith runs his hands up his back, against Shiro’s stubble, his cheeks, his neck. Shiro shivers and feels afire and watches as Keith settles on top of him again, halfway on his thighs. But Shiro’s legs are outstretched this time, and he’s feeling an ache far different from that of a rope.

Keith shoves a hand to Shiro’s dick, and Shiro groans.

“You don’t need to —” he starts, but Keith is shaking his head, a rumble breaking through him, and there’s a near growl to it when he speaks.

“I _do_. I want to.” He gives Shiro a half-kiss at the corner of his mouth, missing target. He seems more cognizant now that he’s come, though still unnaturally slow and bleary. But at least he’s not focusing off in the distance anymore.

Shiro places a hand over Keith’s exposed hips and watches Keith sadly. “You’re a little off base right now, Keith.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“ _No_.” Keith’s teeth are sharp and gleaming. “I like this. I like — you.” Keith shakes his head and pulls Shiro in tight and suddenly looks more frustrated than Shiro’s ever seen him before. “ _Fuck_ , Shiro. You tried to kill me, and I told you I loved you.”

And when that makes no sense at all, Keith goes on. “Stop worrying about _stupid shit_.” His breath is low and pleasing against his ear. “ _Please_. You could probably do anything to me, and I’d let you.”

He kisses Shiro again, this time on the lips, and Shiro pulls his arm around Keith's ribs to greet him properly, sliding him back onto his crouch. He digs his own mouth against Keith’s — messy, wet — and lets his hand move to Keith’s cheeks to steady the still-lit warmth between them. As the kiss lengthens, Shiro turns his mouth again to Keith’s jaw, kissing and licking. Then his neck.

It’s gross — dirty — but the come on Shiro’s face doesn’t seem to bother Keith at all because the _weird_ sound Shiro couldn’t place earlier returns, and whatever it is, it causes Keith to vibrate pleasantly against him. Shiro is overwhelmed by the sensation.

(And god, is it nice to know where the shaking is coming from this time.)

Shiro comes with Keith’s hand around his dick and Keith’s neck against his nose. He breathes in Keith for a solid minute after the hit, enjoys the calm, and Keith does the same to him. Keith must be experiencing relief, even if temporary, because as he finally withdraws and settles next to Shiro, he looks happy.

But now that’s Shiro’s back in reality and not sex-focused and lustful, the situation creeps upon him like a slow-acting poison. His throat is parched and his jaw pries opens. “We. We shouldn’t have done that, Keith.”

And when Keith looks over sharply, he clarifies. “You’re…” He gestures up and down at Keith. “You didn’t want that. And I don’t want to hurt you. I’d — never —” and that’s not true because Shiro _had_. He’d tried to kill Keith, had reveled in his pain just weeks ago. He’d fucked Keith while he couldn't have consented to it. He shift gears to something else he hopes is true. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The drug must still be doing a number on Keith because instead of pointing out the obvious problem with his claim (Shiro has, multiple times, hurt Keith), or the fact that by now Shiro’s been in need of saving by Keith far more times than the opposite, he laughs. It’s an action clouded by coughs and uneven breath, yet it remains brighter than anything in the room, and Shiro watches on in awe.

“I know that.” He presses his forehead against Shiro’s from the side, and despite it all Shiro feels protected. Keith is flushed and embarrassed against him, but Shiro assumes he must look just the same. "And I _did_ want that."

Shiro sighs. He looks to the door only reluctantly. "We need to —” He cuts himself off.

“...Yeah,” Keith agrees, but sounds annoyed about it.

They have more to talk about, but it’s dangerous to do so here, and it would risk giving away their won freedom. The element of surprise is all they have left — assuming they somehow didn’t lose it after that display — and so they part and station themselves on opposite ends of the door, back in battle-ready stances, undersuits zipped up once more.

Shiro doesn’t know how long passes as they wait for a sign of life, but he watches Keith all the while. He knows Keith has to be terrified about what they’ve done — because _he’s_ terrified about what they’ve done — but Keith doesn’t avert his eyes no matter how many times Shiro does the same. His sclera have keep their faint Galra glow, a stunning pooling of light in the dim room. His other alien features have faded, but however unusual, Shiro finds himself missing them.

They _will_ talk later in the safety of the Lions. He’s pretty sure he knows how it’ll go (has know for a while, if he’s being honest with himself; he knows well what’s been between them, lurking, and knows this was the tipping point for their relationship and not the base), but it’s still painful to think that this is going to be between them now, etched, always, as a memory that should not have been.

Shiro listens intently at the door, and the hour drags on. He wonders, at a point, if they’re going to be left here to rot for good.

But when there is, at last, a sound on the other side of the door and a crack of hallway light, Shiro doesn’t wait even half a second to spring from his position.

He has his goal (find the others, get out) and has more than his standard motivation to finish the job.

**Author's Note:**

> Keith spends the majority of the fic under the influence of an alien aphrodisiac that was given to him nonconsensually before the story's start. He cannot and does not give meaningful consent to sexual activities with Shiro before they play out. However, he enjoys everything that happens, and full intent (which Keith voices at the end as the drug wears off) is that he and Shiro both wanted to bang anyway. Still, I would advise passing this story by if consent issues skeeve you because things are initiated in a very high-stress situation, and Shiro knowingly touches Keith while he's impaired. Also, there is one line indicating that Keith may have tried to grind on Shiro when he was unconscious, which is obviously something Shiro could not have consented to either.
> 
> anyway, that was Sheith In Closet with Drugs. thank u for reading (dabs). I am tossing around ideas for a sequel where they find/use the drug again later (in a pre-negotiated fashion) but do not yet have anything solid down.


End file.
